“On your show. I’ve had a lot of time at home lately with your dad recovering and all.”
I’m stunned that my mom is stooping so low as to watch daytime television in general, soap operas to be specific. “So, what do you think of it?”
She smiles. “I’m starting to get into the story lines. Especially Felicia and Rudolph’s of course. So tell me. When is Felicia’s memory going to come back?”
“Mom! I can’t tell you the show’s secrets. I signed a nondisclosure form. They can sue me.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake. Who do you think I’m going to tell? The mailman?”
Guilt hits me and all of a sudden, I spill my guts. Nondisclosure notwithstanding, my mom trumps all legal contracts.
18
After helping with cleanup I suddenly get a brilliant idea. “Hey, want to look at old photos?”
“Really?” Dad asks. He knows that’s about my least favorite thing to do, but for some reason all these changes have made me sentimental.
“Yeah, really.” I grin at his “you traitor” expression because I happen to know he hates doing the picture album thing too.
“I love that idea,” Shelly perks. “I’ll help you get them down.”
“What do you say, Ma?” I ask. “You up for a trip down memory lane?”
“Sounds like fun. You two get the albums.”
A few minutes later Mom and Dad are happily telling stories around the pictures. Our baby pictures bring about a sigh from Shelly. “I wonder what my baby is going to look like.”
“Beautiful like you,” I say, feeling nostalgic, which is making me generous. I sling an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close for a second.
My parents look up from the photographs and smile. Both of them. As though I’ve done something wonderful. I guess it beats arguing, but you know, this baby is special, and since I stood next to Shelly’s bedside and watched the baby on the screen, I’ve felt very “auntish” and much closer to my sister.
Shelly lets out a snort. “Look, Tabs. Remember this?”
I turn to the photo album and smile at a picture of Shelly, Michael, and me. All loaded down with chicken pox.
Mom shudders. “Three kids crying for calamine lotion around the clock. I needed a vacation after that.”
“Hey, remember the grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup?” Shelly asks.
“Mmm,” I reply. “And homemade chocolate chip cookies.”
I can’t help but laugh at the memory. “It didn’t do a thing for the itching, but it made me feel better anyway.”
“Yeah, me too.” Shelly’s eyes are misty. “I hope I can be as good a mother as you are, Mom.”
I can’t help but follow Shelly’s gaze to my mom. Her eyes are swimming with tears, and it’s obvious she’s deeply moved by Shelly’s words. She reaches across the table and pats the mom-to-be on her hand. “You’ll be wonderful.” I squirm a little—uncomfortable. I mean, do these two really need another bond?
I avert my gaze back to the pictures and remember that David’s kids are suffering from chicken pox too. Is he rubbing them with calamine lotion and feeding them treats? Something squeezes my heart. Even though I was closer to my dad as a child, I can’t imagine going through various childhood illnesses without Mom’s brand of TLC. An idea hits me and true to my impulsive nature, I hop up from the table. “Well, folks. I think it’s time for me to head back home.”
“You don’t want to stay for supper to find out Michael’s big announcement?”
“Announcement?” I can’t help the frown puckering my brow. “Who said anything about an announcement?”
“Well, why else would he make a point of coming over for dinner?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he just wants a free meal.”
“Hardly.” She gives me a once-over. “You could use a hearty meal yourself. Don’t you want to stay?”
“Thanks, Mom. But I have plans.”
“Well, all right,” she says with a sigh. “It’s been nice having you home.”
“It’s been nice to be here.” I’m about to say something about how much it’s meant to spend time with her, but she points to a picture and looks at Shelly. “Look at your first birthday party. You were always such a little beauty.” Oh well.
I definitely think it’s time for me to go home. A whole day with the family is enough for an independent woman like me. Besides, seeing the chicken pox pictures reminds me that the twins are at home miserable and itching. I want to implement my idea before I chicken out.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in front of Normandie Court at Third Avenue and Ninety-fifth Street, staring at the twenty-year-old high-rise apartment building in front of me. David and the twins live on the second floor.
You’d have thought I was a stalker when I called Jerry to ask for David’s address. Quite frankly, he was taking the whole privacy issue a little far until I made a veiled threat that went something like: “You know, my throat is awfully scratchy (fake cough, fake cough). I think I might be coming down with strep throat, or possibly even mono or something. How long does it take to recover from strep? A week?”
He threatened to fire me, but we both know that’s not going to happen. So with great reluctance, Jerry gave up David’s privacy for the sake of production.
Next to me in the front passenger seat sits the nice big “get well” basket I put together. I take it in both hands and head for the door of the apartment building. The sixty-year-old doorman looks down his chiseled Roman nose and doesn’t seem to believe I know someone that lives in the building. “David Gray,” I say, trying without much success to control the hostility starting to rise at the snobbery. I mean, sure, he’s just doing his job and that’s a good thing. But he could do it with a little more personality and a little less attitude, if you want my honest opinion.
He comes back to me after a “private” phone call. “Mr. Gray is expecting you, Miss Brockman. Second floor, third door on the right.”
My first instinct is to stick my nose in the air (much like his) and stomp off with all the I-told-you-so dignity I can muster, but I figure he’s just doing his job, so instead, I slip him a couple of bills and thank him for his help. His eyebrows go up, especially when I take a Snickers bar from the basket and present it to him.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Uh, Randall Shultz.” He eyes the candy bar, and I know he wants to take it. I push it on him. “Go on, take it. I have plenty of goodies in here for the kids.”
His face cracks into the first pleasant expression I’ve seen in the past ten minutes. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I ask. “A little smile here and there takes a good ten years off your face.”
I swear he blushes and instead of frowning (and really, it could have gone either way after a comment like that one), he chuckles and the smile reaches his brown eyes.
“Thanks for the Snickers,” he says. “I haven’t had chocolate in six months.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say in mock horror. “Don’t you know that chocolate is one of the essential food groups? Promise me you’ll have some at least once per week from now on.”
“Well, it appears my health depends upon it. You have my word, miss.” He nods toward the elevator. “Mr. Gray will be calling down asking why I’m holding up his pretty guest.”
Now it’s my turn to blush. Warmth floods my cheeks. “Okay, I can take a hint. So nice to meet you, Mr. Shultz.”
He winks and suddenly looks very grandfatherly. “Call me Randy.”
David is waiting at the doorway when I turn right off the elevator. He smiles broadly. “It really is you. I thought Randy might have been teasing, it took you so long to get up here.”
“Sorry. Just having a little chat with your doorman about the importance of all the food groups.”
He gives an odd little frown as he moves aside so I can step into his apartment. I am immediately struck by the cozy warmth of the place. To the right is a good-s
ized living room with a lovely gas fireplace and Ethan Allen furniture. “Nice place you have here. Real wood floors or laminate?” Okay, I did not just ask that. My nerves are getting the better of me. Calm down, Tabby.
A smile tugs at his lips. “Real oak. Want to tap it?”
“Not necessary.” I’m trying to be cool, but my heart is about to thump out of my chest. “I believe you.”
“Would you like to sit down?” he asks, motioning toward the beige sofa.
“Sure, thanks.” I set the basket on the coffee table in front of the couch and sink into the cushions like an anchor in the ocean. I clear my throat, unsure what to do next.
Awkward silence.
“I, um, well, maybe I should go…”
“You just got here,” David says, and I swear his voice is low and sort of husky, and I am having trouble concentrating on just why I came in the first place.
David nods to the basket. “So, what’s this?”
“Oh, just a few things I thought might help get the twins through the next few days of itchy spots and fever.” I grin. “It’s tough being a kid.”
He looks down at me with… oh, my… those eyes are incredible. David drops to the couch beside me. “Thanks,” he says. “That’s nice of you. I’m sure the kids’ll appreciate it.”
“Oh, well.” I clear my throat. I never quite know how to react in these situations, and I can feel heat rise to my cheeks. “I-I just remember being sick when I was little.”
So what do I do now? I’ve dropped off the basket, and he hasn’t offered me anything to drink, nor has he called the kids in to look at the goodies I brought, so I guess he’s waiting for me to take a hike.
I brace my hands on my knees and stand. “Well, I suppose I’d better be going,” I say again.
He stands right along with me and is so close, I’m thinking about mentioning personal space, only—no. I like that he’s so close I can smell his aftershave, can feel the heat of him. “Like I said, you just got here,” he says softly. Man, his voice is so sexy and well… sexy. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I shudder.
“Cold?” he asks.
Um, actually, just the opposite. I swallow hard. “Yeah, a little I guess.”
“Then stay. I’ll crank up the fire. I was just about to pop into the kitchen and look for something to fix the kids for lunch.” He unravels my wool scarf and slides it from around my neck. “Stay and eat with us.”
“I’d love to.” His obvious pleasure at my acceptance spurs me on and gives me the energy I need. “As a matter of fact, if you’re game, I brought the perfect lunch for a winter day.” I turn to the table and pick up the basket. “My mom fixed me grilled cheese and tomato soup when I was sick.” I give a careless shrug. “I thought the twins might enjoy it too.”
The expression on his face turns all mushy, and he reaches for me. His warm hands close around my arms, and he stares down at me. “Do you have any idea… ?”
My heart thumps in my chest. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment David declares it’s me and not Rachel that he’s truly interested in pursuing a relationship with.
“Daddy!”
Why? Why? Why?
Reluctantly he steps away. He smiles and points. “Kitchen’s that way. I’ll be right back.”
I stare after him in bewildered silence. Do I have any idea… what? Frustrated, I head in the direction he pointed.
In the kitchen I find gorgeous stainless steel appliances and pots and pans that any cook would be delighted to play with.
I reach into my basket and pull out cheese, bread, butter, and a large can of Campbell’s (is there any other kind?) tomato soup. I put four sandwiches together and set them all cooking on a flat skillet. The soup is warming in a pot. I pull matching plates and bowls from the cabinet and set the four-chair kitchen table.
David’s voice startles me. “Who would ever believe that Tabitha Brockman, aka Felicia Fontaine, is actually a closet domestic goddess?”
For some reason, my stomach flip-flops at the words as well as the fact that he’s standing inches from me, speaking over my shoulder. I have a couple of choices—slide away or turn around. I mean, come on. What would you do?
I turn, and his arms encircle me. “This might be a little too domestic for the kids,” he whispers, his face close to mine like he’s about to kiss me.
“I-I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
He presses a quick, warm kiss to my forehead and steps away from me. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for them to experience what looks like a mom, dad, and kids around the table situation.”
Okay, but isn’t he the one that asked me to stay for lunch? “Oh, sure. I understand. I’ll just turn off the soup and leave.”
He smiles. “I didn’t mean for you to leave.”
“You’re confusing me.” And starting to tick me off.
Walking across the room, he pulls a couple of TV trays from a wooden stand in the corner. “I’m going to take them lunch in bed. Then we—meaning just the two of us—can have a private lunch.”
Oh.
I help him ladle soup and cut sandwiches corner to corner for the kids, and I have to admit, it does sort of feel like—you know—what he said. Like we’re sort of a family. Only that’s obviously not okay with him. Which actually sort of offends me. I mean, every time I turn around Rachel is playing the little missus, but a little soup and grilled cheese with me is too close for comfort? I’m confused. What’s with the arms around me and the kiss on the forehead? That’s called mixed signals, bub, I think to the back of his head as we each carry a tray, and I follow him into the kids’ room. The spotted five-year-olds look miserable.
“Look who’s here, guys,” David says with what I perceive to be forced cheerfulness, as though he’s trying to drum up enthusiasm.
“Why is she here?” Jenn asks grumpily.
“Be polite, honey. Miss Brockman brought you and Jeffy a basket filled with things to help pass the time while you’re sick.”
Her blue eyes go wide with interest. “You did?” she asks.
“What’d you bring?” Jeffy pipes in.
“Part of what she brought is this lunch.”
“Grilled cheese?” Jenn says.
Jeffy gives me a shy smile. He recently lost one of his bottom front teeth, and the gap glares. “I like grilled cheese.”
My heart melts as I look into his spotted face, which, come to think of it, doesn’t look as much like chicken pox as I remember from the photographs at Mom’s. Still, I smile at the little boy. “So do I, especially when I’m not feeling well.”
“Can we see what else is in the basket?” Jenn pipes up, absent the attitude she usually displays.
“That’s not up to me, sweetheart,” I say. Sweetheart? Where did that come from? I don’t think I’ve ever called a child sweetheart, or any other term of endearment, in my entire life. My heart is pounding in my ears. What’s wrong with me?
“Can we, Daddy?”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Jenn,” David says, tweaking the little girl’s nose. “I’ll tell you what. You two eat a good lunch and when you’re finished, I’ll let you see the basket.” He looks from one to the other. “Okay?”
The twins nod. And it looks like they’re not going to have much of a problem with their end of the bargain because they’re digging in like a couple of troupers.
“Shall we?” David asks me, pointing toward the door.
“Sure.”
As we walk back into the kitchen, David laces his fingers with mine. “You keep surprising me, Tabitha.”
Enjoying the warmth of his hand and the way he said my full name, I’m afraid a sigh escapes me. Why do I have to be so transparent? “It was just a spur-of-the-moment idea,” I admit, hoping against hope that my nerves don’t get the best of me and make my palms sweat.
“Sometimes spur-of-the-moment ideas are the best,” he says, stopping once we reach the kitchen, bu
t not turning loose of my hand.
I can’t help but laugh. “Tell my mom that little bit of news, will you? She thinks I’m the most impulsive girl in the world.”
“Well, I think we need to set her straight about something.” His husky tone lifts the hair on the back of my neck and sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine as he takes a step in my direction until we’re very, very close.
“I’m not impulsive?”
“You’re not a girl, Tabitha. You’re a woman.” He slips his arms around my waist, pulling me close against him until his face is mere inches from mine. “And I’m the one who’s being impulsive,” he whispers. His mouth barely brushes mine when the twins burst into the room.
“We’re done, Daddy.”
David steps back quickly, like a thief caught with the stolen jewels. “Already? Did you eat enough?”
“Yes, sir. I ate all of my sandwich, and Jeffy ate all of his soup.”
Despite the fact that my lips are aching for the rest of that kiss, I can’t help but smile.
“A deal’s a deal,” I murmur and head to the counter where my basket, minus the lunch fare, is still sitting. “Here you go, kids.”
They pad across the room to the table, carrying the basket with two hands. I have sort of loaded it down. Coloring books and crayons, picture books—including Itchy, Itchy Chicken Pox. And on a whim, I picked up the Disney movies Mary Poppins and Peter Pan.
“If they already have those movies, we can exchange them.”
David shakes his head. “They don’t, as a matter of fact. I’ve been meaning to start a Disney collection with the classics like these, but I never seem to get around to it.”
David quickly confiscates the various candies before the kids can snatch them up. “We’ll ration these,” he informs the twins.
From my purse in the living room, I hear the sound of my phone playing the Friends theme.
“Excuse me a sec.” I head into the living room and pick up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Tabby.”
“Brian?”
“Yeah.” He sounds—miserable.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know… just seeing you last night…”
Catch a Rising Star Page 18